


Born to Burn

by Darth_Nemo



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Greek Mythology
Genre: Other, as a treat, look folks you guys can have a little bit of slight gayness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nemo/pseuds/Darth_Nemo
Summary: Most boys dreamed of fighting monsters, saving dames, riches, power, fame. Icarus? Icarus dreamed of freedom.
Relationships: Helios/Icarus (if you squint), Icarus/Apollo (if you squint)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Edited Version

**Author's Note:**

> howdy y'all anyway this is the modern myth I submitted to my Latin Club competition edited to be Ancient Greek again and gay if you squint

Icarus had never been like the other boys. While the other boys often dreamed of sword fighting, great quests, and heroism, Icarus dreamed of flying. To feel the wind on his face, to feel the sun beating down on his airborne body, to feel free.

The dreams of flying away had only increased after him and his father Daedalus had been imprisoned in the Labyrinth. To the point where every night, he dreamed of launching himself into the sky, soaring far away from everyone, with only the sky, clouds, and sun to keep him company. He was extremely lonely, locked away from everyone. He hadn't even committed a crime! His father was the perpetrator! But he couldn't hate his father- his father was the only person he had. He loved his father. But it didn't change the fact that he was lonely.

Soon, he began talking. To himself? To the sky? To the sun? He didn't know. But he talked, nonetheless, blathering on about his day, and about his father's progress with their escape plan, and sometimes confiding that he thought he would never be free, and perhaps death was a better fate than this. Sometimes it felt like someone was listening. Sometimes when he went on his depressed rants about dying free is better than living caged, he could have sworn that it got warmer. He could have sworn that the sun shined brighter. It made him feel... happy. Warm. Loved. The sun soon became a solace from his prison, and he poured his heart out to it.

It saddened him to know that the sun would never be able to actual answer. He wanted to be able to have heart-to-hearts and laugh and be able to talk to someone. There was his father, but his father wasn't really the best at the type of conversation Icarus wanted. Icarus wanted casual discussion and humorous chats. His father was better at debates, at serious discussions meant to teach. He sighed, staring longingly at the sun. His father whacked him over the head. "Don't stare at the sun, imbecile!" It was also kind of difficult to have a conversation when you couldn't make eye contact with the person- thing- you were talking to.

\---

His father had found a way to escape. He had built wings, beautiful, genius, inventions... no, _art_ , that were the key to their freedom. His father had done nothing but lecture him for the past couple of weeks. Don't fly too high, Icarus, or the wax will melt, and you will perish. "Don't fly too low and close to the water, Icarus, or water will mess the wax up, and you will perish."

Icarus eagerly took the wings, helping his father strap into his before his father strapped him in in return. They raced over a vent, the wings lifting them into the air, ascending them into the heavens. Icarus let out a whoop, blasts of air hitting his face, throwing his hair into the wind, blowing him around. He let out a delighted laugh, on cloud nine. He flipped, hooting and hollering, cheering.

He was _free_.

And he loved it. Icarus was born for this, he was born to be blown around in every which direction, no purpose but the here and the now, to reach new heights, to fly free, listening to no one but the sky, _wild_.

He shot up, soaring higher and higher, the wind in his hair and the sun on his skin exhilarating. He caught sight of the sun. The friend who'd been there all those years for him. The one way of comfort that he'd ever really had. He ascended higher and higher, ignoring his father's screeches for him to stop, mesmerized by the sunset.

The view was so much better thousands of feet in the air than in his prison. He was so mesmerized by the sunset that he didn't think to stop ascending, didn't think to heed his father's words. He didn't _think_. He reached out, crying tears of joy, declaring his love to the sun, more jovial than he could remember being for... forever.

And then he was freezing, and then the sun's warmth suddenly wasn't enough, and then the wings stopped working, and then he was falling.

_To love is to die._

He flailed, screaming in terror, so cold that he felt burning now. Had the wings caught fire? But that didn't matter anymore. He plummeted to the ocean, the last view he ever saw of the sunset. He hit the ocean hard, bones shattering, neck breaking on impact. The fire in him put out. He sank into the cold, unforgiving depths.

Icarus was not like other boys.

Icarus had been born to burn.


	2. Original Version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the original version, the one that actually got me third place at the latin competition

Winston had never been like the other boys. 

While the other boys often dreamed of sword fighting, great quests, and heroism, Winston dreamed of flying. To feel the wind on his face, to feel the sun beating down on his airborne body, to feel  _ free _ . 

The dreams of flying away had only increased after him and his father Harrison had been imprisoned on an island. To the point where every night, he dreamed of launching himself into the sky, soaring far away from everyone, with only the sky, clouds, and sun to keep him company. 

He was extremely lonely, locked away from everyone. He hadn’t even committed a crime! His father was the perpetrator! But he couldn’t hate his father- his father was the only person he  _ had _ . He loved his father. 

But it didn’t change the fact that he was lonely. Soon, he began talking. To himself? To the sky? To the sun? He didn’t know. But he talked, nonetheless, blathering on about his day, and about his father’s progress with their escape plan, and sometimes confiding that he thought he would never be free, and perhaps death was a better fate than this. 

Sometimes it felt like someone was listening. Sometimes when he went on his depressed rants about dying free is better than living caged, he could have sworn that it got warmer. He could have  _ sworn  _ that the sun shined brighter. It made him feel... happy. Warm. Loved. The sun soon became a solace from his prison, and he poured his heart out to it. 

It saddened him to know that the sun would never be able to actual  _ answer _ . He wanted to be able to have heart-to-hearts and laugh and be able to  _ talk to someone. _

There was his father, but his father wasn’t really the best at the type of conversation Winston wanted. Winston wanted casual discussion and humorous chats. His father was better at debates, at serious discussions meant to teach. 

He sighed, staring longingly at the sun. His father whacked him over the head. “Don’t stare at the sun, imbecile!” 

It was also kind of difficult to have a conversation when you couldn’t make eye contact with the person- thing- you were talking to. 

\--- 

His father had found a way to escape. He had built jetpacks, beautiful, genius, pieces of machinery that were the key to their freedom. His father had done nothing but lecture him for the past couple of weeks. Don’t fly too high, Winston, or the equipment will freeze, and you will perish. Don’t fly too low and close to the water, Winston, or water will get into the systems and break it, and you will perish. Winston eagerly took the jetpack, helping his father strap into his before his father strapped him in in return. They started the jetpacks up, ascending to the heavens. Winston let out a whoop, blasts of air hitting his face, throwing his hair into the wind, blowing him around. He let out a delighted laugh, on cloud nine. He flipped, hooting and hollering, cheering. 

He was  _ free _ . 

And he loved it. 

Winston was born for this, he was born to be blown around in every which direction, no purpose but the here and the now, to reach new heights, to fly free, listening to no one but the sky, wild. 

He shot up, soaring higher and higher, the wind in his hair and the sun on his skin exhilarating. He caught sight of the sun. The one friend who’d been there all those years for him. The one way of comfort that he’d really had. He ascended higher and higher, ignoring his father’s screeches for him to stop, mesmerized by the sunset. The view was so much better thousands of feet in the air than in his prison. 

He was so mesmerized by the sunset that he didn’t think to stop ascending, didn’t think to heed his father’s words. 

He didn’t think. 

He reached out, crying tears of joy, declaring his love to the sun, more jovial than he could remember being for... forever. 

And then he was freezing, and then the sun’s warmth suddenly wasn’t enough, and then the jetpack stopped working, and then he was falling. 

_ To love is to die. _

He flailed, screaming in terror, so cold that he felt burning now. Had the machinery caught fire? 

But that didn’t matter anymore. He plummeted to the ocean, the last view he ever saw of the sunset. He hit the ocean hard, bones shattering, neck breaking on impact. The fire in him put out. He sank into the cold, unforgiving depths. 

Winston was not like other boys. Winston had been born to burn.


End file.
